I recently received Halo, and thus far have dreamt about killing weird-looking aliens in extraterrestrial environment twice. The beginning of this dream had me, in my slumbering state, believing that this would be my third Halo dream. Well, it did not quite turn out that way.
Now, I can relate to you my dream in its entirety, but I would simply be boring you to tears for the grand part of it. Let’s do what all impatient masturbating porn-watchers do – fast-forward through the boring dialogue to get to the action. So let’s do that now, shall we.
It’s half way through my dream, and I am resting in my bed. Suddenly I realise that there are two girls lying there as well. I enquired after their presence in my room, and although I cannot remember what they said, I received the impression that they were guests of my mother. One of them revealed that she was from Britain although she did not have the accent to prove it. I more or less ignored them while I went to the phone, and called Flez.
In the waking world, he was actually supposed to call me that night, but did not since he was at Samantha’s (his current chick) until quite late. I suppose this part of the dream was my subconscious mind predicting my conversation with him if I had called him the next morning to find out why he did not call.
I do not remember what I said, and I do not remember what he said. What I do remember is that I started to become angry almost immediately. I soon made for the door, because I knew I was going to explode, but did not quite make it before I began screaming obscenities into the phone at the top of my lungs. My mother came after me then, screaming at me for using expletives, but I could not be bothered with her because the source of my anger was talking into my ear.
Outside of my room, I should have met my living room, but instead I emerged onto the sun-stroked balcony of the fuck-apartment that Michele took me to the few times we had sex. It was a strange scene – me screaming into the phone with my mother in hot pursuit, screaming at me. Flez was crying. I don’t remember what I said to start those tears. I do know that I wanted him to cry.
It was at this point in the dream that I woke up, and realised what I had been dreaming as it was still fresh in my head. This was in the middle of the night, so of course, within 2 minutes, I was back to sleep – but not fully. It was a strange state where I was not fully awake but not fully asleep, and still dreaming. But then, I am not quite sure if it would be accurate to call this dreaming because unlike dreams, where one has little or no control over what happens, my semi-awake mind had significant control over what occurred. And oddly enough, it was when I had more control over my dream that it became hugely psychotic.
So there was Samantha and Flez – their backs to a wall – doing nothing. Just standing there. It seemed that I did not want Samantha in my head, or at the very least, if she had to be in my head, she could not be alive. The knife was in my hand, and then, the blade was in her naked stomach, pushed down to the hilt just below her breast bone. I sliced her open, stopping just above her pubic region. I don’t know if anything graphic such as guts falling out happened, and I don’t know if she died. I do know that slicing her stomach open, even in this dream version, had a certain satisfying quality to it. I began to do the same thing to Flez, but stopped just when the tip of the knife entered his stomach. I did not go any further.
The weird thing is that it did not end there. It became a recurring dream within a dream, where these two would constantly reappear, and I would slice open their bellies (from the second time onwards, I did not hesitate to do this to Flez as well), driving the knife in right down to the hilt, so that I could feel the blade go straight through their bodies, the tip hitting the plastered walls behind them, then dragging the blade down. This happened over and over again for about half in hour in my sleep… maybe more… because it is difficult to gauge time in semi-slumber.
If this was not bad enough, it became worse when I started picturing – as opposed to dreaming – them kissing and touching each other. Then, instead of slicing them open, I would start stabbing them like crazy – in their stomachs, their chests, their necks and in the back of their heads. And soon I was no longer stabbing them. I was stabbing the wooden headboard of my bed, and also my door. Splinters were flying everywhere. But I could not stop this stabbing motion – the endless drawing back of my hand to drive this knife down into something solid.
It was at this point that chaos erupted in my head. My dream deteriorated into a disjointed, fragmented series of images. All of them involved me going insane with this knife. And, at two separate points, I began to sob. But not in my dream. In my sleep.
I awoke extremely pissed off from this dream. Or maybe “pissed off” is not an accurate way to describe how my dream spilled over to the rest of my day – up until now. It would probably be better to say that the psychotic nature of those sleep-enticed images lasted in my waking state. For the entire day, I felt like exploding – much in the same way that I did over my dream phone with Flez. But I also wanted to explode in a more physical way as well – I felt like breaking stuff. I wanted to punch a hole through my door. I wanted to punch somebody in the fucking face.
For the entire day I was on edge – as if my body was filled to the brim with this barely-bridled energy that needed to be released with fists. I think it was noticeable to from a couple of the comments made by some of the guys with whom I was hanging out today.
As for my psychoanalysis of my own dream now, I think it is quite simple. I am still very much affected by Flez. I am very much jealous of his new girlfriend. Although I no longer feel “depressed” (for lack of a better word) over this issue, I am still not over it. I no longer mope around thinking about the guy, because it is only so long a sane individual can do that, but also because I won’t allow myself to. I suppose these feelings that I am hiding have to escape somehow. And so it happened that they escaped in this extremely violent (though all in my head) way.
Heavily violent imagery in my head is actually nothing new – when I was much younger, I used to fantasize about torturing people, and sitting on the roof of my secondary school with a sniper’s rifle, just picking off pedestrians unlucky enough to cross my path. So this is old news. What is psychotic about it is that I dreamt about repeatedly killing someone I still know I love. And his current girlfriend. (Well, that part is more believable. Ha!)
I do not view this as being particularly healthy, but my view is, since it is all in my head, it is okay. I will simply allow it to play itself out. It most likely will whether I want to or not.
I still feel like murder.
“Nobody wants to hear about your dreams. They’re boring. There’s a reason you were asleep during this.” – some comedian